


Captivating

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDMS, Bondage, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Orgasm Denial, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:42:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Rodimus needs to forget.Thunderclash obliges.





	Captivating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dorksidefiker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorksidefiker/gifts).



> Dorksidefiker gave me the idea. Somehow, it birthed _this_ little monstrosity.

Thunderclash watches Rodimus from the bar. He has a glass of Red Label settled between his palms, and he tries to create the illusion of drinking from it. The air throbs with vibrations, the music too loud to hear over, and it settles like an ache at the base of his spinal strut and the casing of his spark. Lights flash through the darkened bar, blue and red and green, splashes of purple and sparks of white, creating dizzying patterns on the dance floor. 

Mechs writhe on the dance floor. They’re beautiful, arching backstruts and raised arms, but it’s the red mech at the center of them all that catches his optics. Rodimus is dazzling, red burning in the dark, optics too bright and true blue. He follows him as he pulls mechs onto the floor, pressing their frames together. Their mouths, their hips, their hands; he drunkenly makes love under the strobe lights without popping a single panel. 

He can be patient. Eventually Rodimus breaks away from them, spinning away like a star cast from orbit. “One Tornado Twist!” He yells, slumping across the bar. His spoiler is raised proudly in the air. Thunderclash can feel the churning air it creates as it moves, the warm expulsions from his vents. He can smell his polish over the sickly sweet engex of the bar and overf the drinks spilt across his plating over the night. Thunderclash’s world has narrowed to the mech only an arm’s reach from him, warm and alive like the flicker of a flame on oil. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Bluestreak chides even as he pours out the drink. 

Bluestreak can’t tell that Rodimus is half-giddy off of the company, not the drink. There’s no hesitation or tremor in his hand as he takes it, knocking half of it back with the kind of aim a mech as overcharged as Bluestreak thinks Rodimus is wouldn’t have. Thunderclash watches the stretch and flex of Rodimus’s neck as he swallows it, the trail of shining blue engex dripping from the corners of his mouth. Thunderclash licks his lips. He wants to taste it, that blue, and sip it from Rodimus’s mouth, until the haze of the drink overcomes both of them. 

It’s an ugly desire. 

Rodimus brushes his shoulder as he turns to leave, and it’s a silent message to Thunderclash. Today was not a good day, and even he can see the manic need in Rodimus’ interactions tonight. He swallows the rest of his engex, despite the vile taste, and banishes the nascent beginnings of his buzz by reengaging his FIM chip. Clarity comes back in an unwelcome, biting sort brightness, digging its denta into his better reasoning. He ignores it, standing and leaving the bar. 

The halls back to his hab are nearly empty. Those mechs around don’t care who’s in the halls with them and ignore him. It’s for the best. He can already feel warmth pooling in his lines in anticipation for the night, and lead in his tank in dread for the morning. Whatever comes in the morning can’t stop him right now. 

In his hab he pulls the box out from under his berth. He lays out each piece in it carefully, inspecting them with careful fingers for flaws or breaks. When he finds none he repacks what he does not intend to use, and then prepares the rest of the room. The ropes are strung through the hook on the ceiling, then tugged on firmly. The paddle is shined and everything else receives a thorough sanitation. The ceremony of it all is comforting, putting everything in its place, dimming the lights and setting two small, short cubes of lowgrade on his side table for afterwards. 

When everything is in its place he texts Rodimus. ::Come to my hab. Be here in five minutes.:: It is the opening salvo of the night, the moment where Rodimus relinquishes control to him. If tonight is a night where he lets go, Thunderclash will see him in five minutes. If not, he will never arrive, and they will both forget that the offer had been made. 

Tonight is not a night to be forgotten. Exactly five minutes later – a sure sign that his submission will not come easily tonight – the door slides open. Rodimus is standing in the entryway, quiet and sober, paint from other mechs streaked over his frame. 

Thunderclash wishes to sweep him off of his peds and into a kiss, to swallow down and consume the taste of other mechs in his lips, but he does not. He watches silently as Rodimus enters the room, gesturing to the hook with its hanging ropes. Rodimus does not speak during these sessions; it was a caveat of their agreement. He stands beneath the hook, coils of rope to the left of his ped, and watches Thunderclash with overbright optics. 

“Be still,” Thunderclash commands, and he can’t help the rasp in his voice. He circles Rodimus slowly, knowing that the anticipation is part of what he needs. There’s a growing trembling in his spoiler, in the tips of his fingers, the breadth of his shoulders. Thunderclash presses his hand to one spoiler wing, feeling the heat of it against his palm. He releases it to lean over and pick up the rope. It is long, a deep grey, and the miniscule chains leave it soft and malleable in his hands, and he wraps it around his hand to remind himself that it is unlikely to hurt Rodimus on its own. Then he passes a loop of it through the hook, pulling it down and taut. 

Rodimus quivers in choked down desire as Thunderclash passes the rope between his thighs, line digging into the wide gaps between armor and pelvis. Around his thighs, then up, over his pelvis, around his waist. He does not touch Rodimus’s plating but to adjust his stance, cold, impersonal. Right now, it is not about pleasure. There is nothing sexual about wrapping Rodimus in the ropes, tethering him, creating a cocoon where escape is impossible. He slowly strips the mech of his agency with each knot, each slide of the woven links against his smooth plating, each silent adjustment of his limbs as if cannot do it himself. Rodimus becomes not a mech but a toy in his hands, pliable and mindless. 

Rodimus’s arms go over his head, hanging from the hook. A taut line between ankles and wrist keeps his back bowed, chassis pushed out, spreader bar between his ankles preventing him from closing his thighs. The gag in his mouth keeps him from speaking, oral lubricants dripping out of the corners of his mouth. More lubricant beads at the seams of his interfacing panel, leaving thin, shining trails down his thighs. Thunderclash listens to the symphony of his fans as he tightens the last knot, dragging Rodimus’ weight up until he’s forced to balance on the tips of his toes. Rodimus’s engine revs, and Thunderclash knows he’s ready. 

He runs his hand over the flat expanse of Rodimus’ abdomen, engine revving. “Beautiful,” he tells him. Outside of this room he would not be allowed to say this. It lingers on his tongue, smooth as triple-filter. “Perfect, lovely, captivating.” 

Rodimus revs helplessly, arching into the touch. Thunderclash steps away. “Did I say you could move?” He asks quietly. It makes Rodimus still. He makes a soft whining sound, knowing what comes next. “You broke the rules.” It is a quiet condemnation. One that Rodimus needs, right now, even if he will not admit it. He needs to be punished for doing the wrong thing. 

Thunderclash steps away, even as Rodimus arches and writhes as much as he can while in the ropes. He looks over the tools laid out on the bed. “You were almost late today, as well. You know you’re not supposed to cut it so closely.” He runs his hands over the paddle, but sets it aside. Rodimus hasn’t done something to deserve that, yet. The same with the cat o’ nine tails and other instruments of pain that he had anticipated needing. 

No. Rodimus does not need that tonight. 

He picks up the spike ring instead. “I think that this means you lose your overload privileges,” he tells Rodimus, turning around to display the small, white ring. “You know that I hate to limit your overloads, but if I can’t trust you to follow a simple order, I don’t think I can trust you to overload when I want you to tonight.” He traces the edges of Rodimus’ interfacing panel with one hand, hot to the touch and expelling damp air. He gathers up the smears and droplets of lubricant that have beaded up past the water-tight seal, then slides them into his mouth. “Primus, you taste good.” Rodimus is watching him, panting around the gag, and he makes a show of sucking his fingers clear of even a lingering taste of his musky fluids. “Open your panel.” 

It snaps open before the order is complete, lubricants spilling onto the floor and down his thighs. The smell of his arousal fills the room. “Good mech,” Thunderclash praises. He runs his hand over the jutting spike, his own array aching at this point. He does not release his spike. It’s not time for that, yet. Instead he palms Rodimus’ spike; it’s a garish thing, yellow and red with biolight ridges, but not the worst he’s seen. In comparison his valve is boring, standard grey mesh with a fat anterior node, already slick with lubricants. He slides the spike ring onto his spike, so thin that it adds almost no width to it, a clean line between the base and body. “Divine,” he praises again, and bends down to kiss the wet tip of it. Rodimus mewls into the gags as his spike twitches, but Thunderclash pulls away. 

He’s tempted to swallow him down to the root and taste him, let him overload down his throat, but that’s not what they’re here for. That’s not why Rodimus comes back to him. 

He takes another moment to fondle his wet valve, sliding his fingers through fat lips and letting the tips catch on the edge of his entrance. Rodimus grinds down into the touch helplessly, unable to do anything but hang there and let Thunderclash explore his frame. 

His ventilations are coming in hot puffs now. All Thunderclash knows in this moment is Rodimus, and hunger sits in the bottom of his tank and gnaws at him. 

For a moment he indulges himself, stepping away and sticking the lubricant-soaked fingers in his mouth. Rodimus tastes like he remembers, musk and oil, warmth, and he can feel his spike begging to unsheathe itself. He _wants_ , desperately so, but he can’t, yet. He gently stuffs Rodimus’ spike back in its casing, closing the panel after it to rid himself of the temptation. Rodimus whines and screams behind his gag, hips jerking, demanding that his array be opened. 

Thunderclash notes with satisfaction that he doesn’t open it without a command. Good mech.

“You moved,” he tells him. “Beauty, I am going to have to punish you further if you can’t follow my rules. They’re so _simple_ , you shouldn’t have _any_ trouble with them.” 

Rodimus screams behind his gag, a tantrum stilled by his restraints. 

“Oh, Beauty, I wish you would listen. You make it so hard not to punish you.” He pets his cheek, frowning. “You’re going to have to learn to listen better.” He turns and picks up two small adhesive pads from the berth, about half the length of his thumb and three times as wide, and their controller. “I do hate upsetting you.” 

Rodimus tracks his hand with his optics, vents hitching. He shakes his helm as he tries to move away, and when Thunderclash grabs his shoulder he can feel Rodimus shivering. “Oh, Rodimus, there’s no need to be afraid.” He gently presses the adhesive patch to the base of his spoiler. “Remember the rules: you are to be still, and quiet, and accepting.” He palms the remote, rubbing his thumb against the dial. “Five seconds for moving, ten for making noise, and fifteen for not listening to me.” He presses a kiss to his mouth, and he’s not startled when Rodimus sinks his denta into his bottom lip. He just works his thumb into the corner of his mouth until he releases him, energon welling up and dripping down his chin. “Pretty, vicious little thing.” 

The dial on the remote is rolled up, and he can feel the vibrations travelling through his chassis. Rodimus arches his spine and _screams_. 

Thunderclash watches. Lubricants seep out from the edges of Rodimus’s panel, trailing down red thighs in a glimmer of clear fluid, but he doesn’t open his panel. “You’re being so good,” Thunderclash praises. Behind his own panel his hard spike pulses almost painfully. Quietly, he counts out the last five seconds. “Five, four, three, two…” The remote shuts off. 

Rodimus sobs at the loss of sensation, at the need nestled behind his panel, kept still only by the knowledge that movement meant that it would only be longer until Thunderclash finally let him overload. 

Thunderclash pets his plating, hands running down his chest and sides. “Shhh, shhh, you were perfect. You’re doing so good. Look at how good you are, with your panel still closed for me after all that.” 

Of course Rodimus purrs beneath his hand. Genuine praise makes him warm and pliant under his servos. Thunderclash tweaks the tip of his spoiler. “Open for me.” He asks, softly, hand against the small of his back as he coaxes it out of him. When the panel clicks open and lubricants slop down his thighs it feels like something stolen. He runs his fingers through arousal-swollen valve lips, hot as sin, and Rodimus bucks into his hand. 

“ _Please_ ,” Rodimus begs. 

“Oh, my spark.” Thunderclash scrapes the edge of his finger over Rodimus’ node. “You shouldn’t have done that.” Rodimus whines and shudders but keeps himself still. “No, you don’t get to take it back. You know that.” He presses the pad of his thumb against his delicious little node and rolls the dial on the remote up. Rodimus grinds down desperately against his hand, spike drooling prefluid as it bobs obscenely against his stomach. Thunderclash stays very still as he counts off the seconds. “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then he shoves his fingers into his valve, spreading them harshly, and dials the control back to zero. 

Rodimus’s valve is soaked. Lubricant trickles down Thunderclash’s hand and over his wrist as he stretches Rodimus out, his fans whining as his frame begins to overheat. Rodimus likes the pain. Thunderclash hates this part, hurting him, making him feel the burn of being stretched and used. He does it because Rodimus _needs_ it. This is why he comes to him. Thunderclash knows how to make the pain feel good. 

He pets Rodimus’s trembling flank. “You’re so good. Look at you, taking my fingers, you open so easy for me.” He pulls his hand away just as he feels the calipers cycle down into overload, and listens to Rodimus’ sob of need. He rests both hands on Rodimus’ hips and allows his own panel to finally open. His spike surges up and rubs against Rodimus’ aft. 

Hips buck against his spike, and the head nudges against Rodimus’ valve once, twice, before Thunderclash finally pulls him into position and slides into him. 

It’s hot and slick and just a little too tight. There’s actually pain in his little Prime’s voice as he screams, but he doesn’t tell Thunderclash to stop. Thunderclash doesn’t wait for him to adjust to his girth to begin thrusting, calipers cycling down on his spike, overstretched valve fluttering around him. “That’s it, that’s it,” he pants against his audial. Rodimus bucks back into his spike and sobs with need. “Rodimus, you’re so good, you’re so...” He keeps his thrusts steady, measured, dragging his spike over his nodes and letting charge crackle and transfer between them. 

It’s not long before Rodimus’ back is bowing as much as it can against the ropes as overload takes him, valve clamping down on Thunderclash’s spike. He warbles something laced with static and Thunderclash pets his hips, his chest, his arms. “Let go. Let go for me, Hot Rod.” 

_This_ is what he’s here for. Thunderclash takes Rodimus’ spike in hand and strokes him through another overload, and then another, until Rodimus is a limp and pliant mess against his chest. Pleasure has turned nearly to pain for Thunderclash, but he’s not here for his own pleasure. His control is an illusion; Rodimus has him in his grips, and he’s fragging Rodimus into oblivion. Only now, when he can see the dimming of Rodimus’ optics and feel the limp weakness of his limbs, valve a desensitized mess from too many overloads, does Thunderclash allow his own control to slip. 

There’s a gasp, a shudder, and Rodimus goes completely pliant. Thunderclash finishes inside of him before wrapping a hand around his chest and tugging on the ropes keeping him suspendeding in the air. His spike recedes, their mixed transfluid dripping down yellow thighs. He’s trembling as he steps back until he can sit on his berth. Rodimus is a purring mess of struts in his lap. He fumbles around for a cube of lowgrade as he pets his chest. “Are you alright?” He rasps. 

Rodimus stretches and then curls again, looking up at Thunderclash with pleasure hazed optics. “Nothing hurts,” he slurs. 

“That’s good. Here, drink.” He holds the cube up to Rodimus’ mouth, letting him take small sips of fuel. His systems begin to normalize as the energon is introduced to his tank, until he’s able to sit up and holde his own cube. Thunderclash allows him to take it and moves on to cleaning out his panel, running a rag wet with a bit of polish over the swollen lips of his valve. He drags two fingers through his folds, feeling Rodimus shudder against him as he scoops out lubricants and transfluid. “Shhhh, I’ve got you. Sensitive?” 

“Yeah.” He shifts his thighs. Thunderclash finishes and closes his panel, reaching for his own cube. The air expelled from his vents is still warm, and he can feel Rodimus’ internal temperature dropping. He tugs the thermotarp from his bed, carefully wrapping it around Rodimus. Best to preserve what heat he can until the racer’s systems normalize completely. “Vid?” It’s almost a request. 

Thunderclash has to search around for the remote, but only for a moment. It’s on the shelf next to his berth. He’d bought the viewer for Rodimus, after a fact. Rodimus did better when he could watch something after a night like this. He puts on some mindless action vid from Caminus, tucks the tarp tighter around Rodimus, and settles. 

When the energon is gone and the vid is over, Rodimus slips out of his arms. “This was fun,” he insists. Thunderclash agrees. “Next time?” 

“Until next time.” 

He wants to reach up and drag him back into his arms. Kiss him. Claim him, like he knows he’ll never be able to do. Like Rodimus will never let him. 

He lets him leave instead. 

It’s not his place to claim a flame as bright as his.


End file.
